


Don't Look At Me

by coolfandomguy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Abusive Victor trevor, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Background Relationships, Crying, Crying Sherlock Holmes, Cute Sherlock, Cute Sherlock Holmes, Drug Dealer John Watson, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, F/F, Flirting, Gangs, Gangsters, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, No Comfort Yet, No cheating, OOC, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Physical Abuse, Protective John, Protective John Watson, Punklock, References to Drugs, Shy Sherlock, Shy Sherlock Holmes, Teen Angst, Teen John, Teen John Watson, Teen Romance, Teen Sherlock, Teenagers, Verbal Abuse, mafia, no infidelity, not from john !
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22345492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolfandomguy/pseuds/coolfandomguy
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, smart teenager with a shit boyfriend, meets John Watson, damaged bad boy mafia/gang member. Neither one knows how much the other can fix.[updates are infrequent but i will let you know when i have a proper schedule!]
Relationships: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Comments: 52
Kudos: 72





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> hope ya enjoy! more coming soon! don't forget to comment!!

Never say Sherlock Holmes never did anything for love. For Vic. No, really the opposite - he'd do anything. Even sacrifice a perfect night in to spend in somebody's basement and sip truly horrific mystery alcohol out of a red cup, with Vic's arm around his waist. He wasn't even paying attention to Sherlock. He was turned the other way, to talk to somebody else boring. This whole house was filled with people he couldn't care less about.

Except for Vic - Victor Trevor, Sherlock’s beautiful, benevolent, hot, clever 20-something boyfriend. He didn’t mind that Sherlock was still in high school; he saw that he was way above the level of everyone else in his grade. He didn’t mind that Sherlock wore things other guys his age tended not to - in fact, he seemed to like it when he could see Sherlock’s bellybutton, or soft upper thighs. He didn’t mind that Sherlock was young, 16, and inexperienced - he didn’t even make it a big deal to teach Sherlock everything there was to know about dating. And kissing. And parties, like this one. Sherlock was quickly becoming known by name and face to Victor’s friends - something they all said had never happened before. Victor wasn’t much of a serious guy, when it came to relationships, but Sherlock really thought there might be something there, between them, something more, and beautiful, and so much more smart than everybody else and their boring, stupid little relationships. It was something so advanced, so intellectual, something Sherlock had never experienced before.

And Vic only hit him when he was high and Sherlock wouldn’t shut up.

It made sense - it always made sense when Vic explained it to him after, when he’d come down and calmed down Sherlock. He’d talk to him all soft and gentle, arms around him, hands holding him, eyes on his, low and rational - “Sher, baby, darling, lover, shhh, it’s all right. Just - shut up, all right? Shhh, listen. I only do it because I’m high. You know I’m a different person on coke, right, babe? I’m sorry. Listen, I’m sorry…”

The same, always the same. Sherlock loved routine. Vic taught him how to love routine.

His fingers passed over the healing black eye, lightly, remembering all the sweet things Vic said to him after. He smiled, when the real Victor’s hand came to grab his. They met eyes, and something in his expression made Sherlock’s smile falter. The moment passed, and Vic’s arm tightened a little around his waist, but Sherlock pushed away, moving towards the kitchen for more of whatever he was drinking. He had the sudden urge to drink as much as he could, and try to throw up this memory later. He found himself feeling that way a lot, recently.

He maneuvered around people - dancing, drinking, partying, kissing, talking, laughing people - and wished more than anything he was back home, in his room, working on experiments or altering clothes, or just smoking on his own. Sherlock made it to the kitchen without much PDA too close to him for comfort, and set about trying to find something strong, before bumping into someone in his haste.

Sherlock looked up, neutral disgust already on his face, when he met crystal, steely blue eyes. Blond hair, tan skin, little freckles, like stars, impressive arms. Nice lips - pink, soft-looking. He schooled himself quickly. “‘Scuse me,” he muttered, casting his eyes away and reaching for the vodka, when the guy’s hand stopped him. He looked back up at him, into his eyes, and his smiling face. It was a nice smile, but a smile that said, ‘I could kill you right now and no one would care, not even me’. Kinda hot. Kinda scary.

Sighing, Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling away from the hand gripping his arm. Asshole. This always happened at these stupid fucking parties, some guy got overzealous and thought he was hot shit, touching a seventeen-year-old in a croptop with a boyfriend. Didn't matter how hot he was, the guy didn't get to touch him without permission. “What?” he bit out.

“Name’s John. It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock.”


	2. Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk a little bit.

The guy's hand dropped to his side, but he lost none of his confidence. For some reason, Sherlock didn't see any of the usual falseness in him that he did with others - something he was immediately intrigued by. Usually whatever guy thought it was a good idea to fuck with him had creeper vibes and was at least ten years his senior, with unbelievable BO. But this John - he seemed different. Looked about eighteen, going by the hair patterns and style choices, but he also looked more mature than that, somehow - that look in his eyes, his smile, was the definition of confidence. 

He wasn’t short, in fact, he was about the same height as Sherlock - maybe a little taller - but looking at him he exuded the aura of someone seven feet tall. He certainly made Sherlock feel short, and small - if not physically, the way he looked at him. His chest and shoulders were broad, but not obscenely so; his waist was trim but solid, fit; his hands were big, and masculine; his arms were muscled. Really muscled. At first, Sherlock was just looking for the pleasure of it, but the closer Sherlock observed, the more he saw - scars no regular eighteen-year-old would have, strangely good posture. Even with this amount of alcohol flowing through his system, Sherlock started putting things together. Overconfident, thinks he’s dangerous... actually might be. Good posture, the way he carries his shoulders suggests he’s alert and aware - why would you need to be, at a party, unless you were someone people wanted to catch off guard? Really young to be concerned about that sort of thing. Part of a gang, or a gang family, most likely…

Interesting. Sherlock tried to pretend it was purely for his peace of mind, but… god, there was just some kind of affect about the guy that Sherlock couldn’t help but be turned on by.

Sherlock became aware he was staring. He snapped up to meet the guy's eyes again and found him smiling smugly, even more smugly than before. He'd noticed Sherlock's once-over. Jesus, what was with him right now?! He had a boyfriend! 

He gathered himself quickly and tried to play off the blush on his cheeks. Fuck.

"Do I recognize you from somewhere, John?" he asked, interested enough to ask.

“I’d hope not,” John replied, eyes hooded as he looked down at Sherlock. His voice was deep, dark. Sherlock could swear he felt it in his bones, god. “You came here with Trevor, right?”

“Yeah. Vic’s… a friend of mine,” Sherlock returned. What was he playing at? Was Sherlock meant to recognize him as one of Victor’s buddies? He was fairly sure he wasn’t. “How do you know him?”

“He’s a client of mine,” John said, and Sherlock got his meaning immediately. Oh. So a gang member, definitely, then. Around here, people didn’t just choose to sell drugs - you didn’t just drop out of school and start doing it. Why would you, unless you had to? And even then, most people didn’t. Sherlock got the feeling John didn’t have much of a choice; he looked like the kind of guy to come from a family like that. It was illegal, sure, but lots of things were. Didn’t bother Sherlock, except that it did. Selling to Vic was a mistake, a stupid one.

“So what do you want from me? Vic said something about me?” Sherlock asked, immediately suspicious. This had happened before. Vic sometimes would tell dealers he had a boyfriend who was willing to ‘pay’ for drugs he couldn’t afford at the time. And Sherlock didn’t think he could take him in a fight right now.

“I don’t want anything from you,” John chuckled, cracking a grin. Sherlock folded his arms, still sizing him up. “I just came over to see if I knew you. Thought I recognized you from school - I go to Westbrook too, y’know.”

It was the truth. Or, rather, the half-truth. John had come over, because he’d been watching Sherlock and Victor all night. He’d seen Sherlock in school before. Cute kid. He didn’t seem to have many friends, but he had a few - and he did really well in school. And John was selling to Victor, so he knew that Victor was not the kind of person who should really be having an underaged boyfriend. Nobody should, for the matter, but Victor really was the last person John would have trusted.  
Plus, now that he was looking at the boy, standing in the kitchen with a cup in his hand, bellybutton showing off, his expression suspicious, accusatory, calculating, he could see the fading bruise over one eye. The other bruises on his arms, his neck. No lovers’ bites, but lots of bruises. It nearly broke John’s heart; such a young kid… 

It also made him want to punch Vic for this. He knew how the guy could get - having dealt with him once or twice before when he was strung out. But John knew how to fight - he had to, in this business - and Sherlock looked like he barely knew how to throw a punch. There was fire in those eyes, but also he was a skinny kid. With a lot of bruises. Made a certain part of John get protective.

“Right, yeah, okay. Listen, just because your family owns the dealing business around here doesn’t mean you own the world. And just because you want to go fight in someone else’s war doesn’t mean you get the respect of a military man, Watson,” Sherlock spat out. Didn’t matter how big, strong, or hot John might have been - anyone selling Vic drugs was on his personal shit list. He prepared for the customary punch in the jaw.

But nothing came.

“Whoa, how’d you know all that?”

Wait… what?

John’s tone surprised Sherlock. His eyes opened, and he looked wildly at John, distaste shocked off his face. But when looking into his eyes, he saw none of what he expected; no anger, hate, no winding up to break his jaw. Only something akin to surprise, amazement; a faint smile, a crease in the brow. Well, that was… interesting. That was different. Usually Victor just looked disgusted with him and told him to “Shut the fuck up, Sherly. Nobody wants to hear it. You sound crazy.”

“I, uh -” his voice came out suddenly small and squeaky - “I, I could tell you’re part of a gang from how you hold yourself, uhm, your posture, and - and how you know Vic, and the fact that you’re *here*,” and John chuckled, he actually chuckled, Sherlock was experiencing some kind of vivid dream right now, oh god, “I knew your last name from - from your wallet. It’s sticking out of your pocket, it’s embroidered. And - the dog tags around your neck. A relative’s - you want to follow in their footsteps,” he said, all in a stuttering rush, all of his bravado and animosity wiped clean away by the simplest of positive feedback. He could feel his face, and he knew it was red. Oh, god. He twisted his fingers together and looked everywhere but John’s face.

John leaned in closer, crowding into Sherlock’s space. He wore that same smile as before - not smug, but wolfish. Confident to the point of arrogance… but shit, was it hot. “That’s impressive,” he hummed, hooded eyes flicking to Sherlock’s lips. His voice was so low and close to Sherlock he actually could feel it in his face and chest. He assumed his face must be pinker than pink.

“Yes, well. Most people are idiots,” Sherlock replied, shy. “That’s not what people usually say, though,” he followed up with, quieter.

“Yeah? What do they usually say?”

“‘Fuck you’, and then usually they punch me.” Sherlock was hyper-aware of how close their faces were. John was still leaning into him.

John chuckled. The sound rang in Sherlock’s ears. For such a built guy, he sure had a nice smile. “I’d never, you little tomato,” he teased, only making Sherlock’s face redder. 

Sherlock was about to reply with something else, but just then somebody snaked their arms around his waist from behind, and he was pulled against the chest of someone taller than him, away from John’s face. John’s expression went from a deliciously wolfish grin to a mere indifferent smile. His eyes went from ‘I’ll back you against a wall’ right back to ‘I’ll kill you’.

“Heyy, lover,” Vic murmured in Sherlock’s ear, a smile in his voice. He smelled really strongly of perfume and beer, disgusting. “You been talking to my dealer? Johnny, this is Sherly. Sherly, this is Johnny,” Victor said - Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes, obvious - and then, “say hi, Sherly.” Sherlock let him kiss his neck as he said, not looking at John, “Hi, John.” 

Never say Sherlock didn’t do anything for love.

John nodded. “Hi, Vic. You sure caught yourself a cute one.” And he winked at Sherlock, still being cuddled like a teddy bear from behind. Victor stopped, shooting a look at John, whose wolfish grin was back. 

Sherlock blinked. That was gutsy. *And hot.*

“You’ve been in the kitchen for a long time, babe. You sick of this party, are you getting tired?” Vic asked him, tone cold. John looked away as Vic backed Sherlock up against the counter, turning him so that they were facing, still extremely close together. Sherlock smiled effortlessly, putting his arms around the taller man’s neck, even as he wanted to turn and push Vic away. If Vic got any more pissed he might do something.

“Yeah. You take me home?”

Vic shook his head, greasy hair bobbing with his head. “I’ll do you one better. You want to stay over tonight?”

Sherlock swallowed, remembering the last time he’d been at Vic’s apartment. He remembered the cold tile of his bathroom and the pounding on the bathroom door, the blood and tears all over the floor and the horrible dull pain in his head. He’d honestly thought Vic would break down that door before he sobered up, and he was dead meat. But he’d calmed down, and it’d been all fine. 

And the make-out session after was really amazing. 

He buried the feelings and mustered a little smile.

“Sure,” he agreed, dry-throated. Vic grinned and Sherlock knew he’d chosen correctly.

“Great. Let’s blow this popsicle stand, babe,” Vic murmured against his neck, tonguing there. Uh. He started to pull away, his hand clamped on Sherlock’s, when Sherlock separated himself, an apology on his lips.

“I’ll meet you in the car, okay, babe? I’m just gonna pour out my drink,” he explained, and Vic nodded, eyes shifting to John and narrowing for a moment before stepping out of the room.

John met Sherlock’s eyes, the unbothered look in his eyes shifting a little. He tapped under his own eye, gesturing to Sherlock’s fading black eye. The dark-haired boy raised a hand to cover it.

“It’s not what it looks like. He loves me,” Sherlock defended. John shrugged, not saying anything. He sighed. He didn’t have time for this. “Listen, I - I’ll see you at school?” His tone was hopeful, even as he tried to keep it neutral.

John cocked his head to one side, making eye contact and licking his lips. “Hope so,” he replied, eyes roving over Sherlock appreciatively, a glint in them, and then shifting back to his drink. It interested - no, frustrated Sherlock, but it was clear he wasn’t getting anywhere else with John, so he turned to leave.

“Oh - Sherlock?”

He turned.

“I see another bruise? I’ll kill him.”

John’s tone switched from casual and in control to intense and threatening. His body language had changed too - one strong finger gesturing out the door after Vic, other hand nearly crushing his cup. It made Sherlock’s hair stand on end, his whole body warm immediately and something swell in his chest - sweet and beautiful, big, unfathomable, undeniably turned *on*. His mouth opened and closed, he reddened again. He let out a breath. Vic called from down the hall. “I - um - I have to go.”

And he did. Left John in that kitchen and chased his boyfriend out of the house and onto the street, into his car, breathless and tasting like cheap vodka. Vic grabbed him roughly, too roughly, by the collar the minute he sat down in the passenger seat, and shoved their mouths together. He tasted of nothing but beer, but his movements were strange, slanted in a way. Sherlock pulled back as quickly as he could get away with, gasping from his run and the hard kiss. His mouth hurt.

“What’d you take? Seriously.”

“Babe, don’t be like that. Nothing. Come on.”

“No, you come on. What did you take?”

Vic sighed, passed a hand over his face. “I’m trying to fucking have a nice night, Sherly.”

“How much did you take?”

“Just one fucking tab! Jesus Christ, you’d think a fucking *slut* like you would be more open about this sort of shit.”

Sherlock stopped. “What are you talking about?” ‘Slut’ wasn’t something Vic called him. Ever.

“You fucking - you flirt with my goddamn drug dealer at a house party, and judge me? For, like, a milligram of acid? I thought you were better than this, Sherly. Come on.”

Sherlock felt like crying. 

It was so vicious, and sudden - he didn’t understand how Victor could think he was trying to flirt with John. He’d been trying so hard to think of his boyfriend the whole time… but he was right. Sherlock really was a slut.

“You don’t deserve me,” Victor was saying. “I’m just - fuck - I’ll just take you home.”

“No, Vic, wait,” Sherlock protested, voice shaking like a leaf.

“No, you wait, *Sherly*.” The way he said it felt like an insult. “I’m taking you home. I’ll call you.”

Sherlock wanted to keep talking, convince him to let him stay over, but that tab of acid brought Vic one step closer to his drug-induced personality and Sherlock really didn’t want to make him mad. Or start crying. So he turned and put on his seatbelt shakily as the car started and Vic drove him home.

The rest of the trip was silent.

Vic stopped in front of his house after the 20-minute nightmare Sherlock found himself in. He started to get out, but Victor said, “Sherly. I catch you talking to that fucking gangster again and I’ll kill you myself. You whore.” His teeth flashed, crazy and white, in the dying light of the streetlamp. His eyes were bloodshot, and filled with hate.

Sherlock pushed the door open the rest of the way and got out, and shut it, and ran to his window, and climbed in. He tossed himself on the bed, in the dark, and cried himself to sleep without changing.

I’ll be over it in the morning, he thought to himself, muffling his cries in his pillows.

I’ll be over it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u like 🥺 pls comment and let me know what you think!


	3. Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of cliches! Lots of hot John! Lots of terrible Victor!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody ! sorry for late chapter !! in the future, this fic will update saturdays, before 10pm PST!

Sherlock woke up late the next day. It was already full sun outside, and he felt worn out and disgusted with himself from the night previous. Ugh. 

After rolling out of bed, he showered and spent the rest of the morning checking his phone every five minutes for a call. Or text, or message at all from Victor.

None came.

He was beginning to worry that Vic had decided this was the last straw. Scratch ‘beginning to worry’, he was sobbing on his floor. He couldn’t help himself. He and Vic had been through so much together - through everything since Sherlock was fifteen… he couldn’t believe that Vic was giving up on him. Just like that. Well… 

No, not just like that - he was constantly pushing Vic. Constantly bothering him and annoying him and angering him and… everything else. Maybe Angry Vic was right, maybe he really was a slut, someone no fun to be around, with no value. Someone not worth anything. Not worth love - Vicky’s love, definitely not… 

Sherlock continued to spiral until around noon, when his phone finally, finally, blissfully buzzed. He leapt up, sniffling heavily and drying his eyes with his oversized sweater sleeve, excited and hopeful but worried that it wasn’t Vic. He checked.

Incoming Voice Call (from Vic 💖💖💖), read the screen.

His heart nearly exploded… and a good amount of fear entered his system as well. What if it was Vic calling to break up? Or tell him all the things he really thought of him, or…? 

He nearly had another breakdown before he answered the phone, but eventually he picked up with a breathless, “Hi, Vicky.”

Vic, Vic, Vic was on the other end. “Sherly,” he said, and it was everything Sherlock had needed, all morning. He sank into the phone call, tears forgotten by the familiarity of the routine.

They talked for an hour - Vic apologized for the night before (“Oh, Sherly, you didn’t think I meant it, did you?” and laughter) but made sure Sherlock knew that John was bad for him. “Men like that,” he’d sighed, “just want you for your looks, okay, Sherl? You doll.” And Sherlock said yes, yes, yes - to everything. Anything Vic said, anything he wanted, it was his. Sherlock would agree with anything for a chance at Vic’s affection.

And Vic said, “I’ll pick you up Monday, after school,” and Sherlock said, “Yes, please,” all dreamy, and Vic told him not to talk to “that Molly girl, that Mike kid, the Sally girl either, and especially not John, Sherlock, please, if you will. You’re mine, babe. Don’t forget it.”

After the phone call, Sherlock felt better - a lot better. And if he fell asleep that night, and dreamed of not a wiry frame and angry grey eyes, but strong tan arms and blond hair, it was simply… well. He didn’t quite know what.

*:･ﾟ✧

On Monday, Sherlock woke up and dressed in a soft, cute oversized sweatshirt, black leggings that showed off his assets, socks decorated with little bees, and white Air Force 1s. He applied a little bit of eyeliner, concealer, and blush, with a gentle pink shade on his eyelids. He turned in the mirror, fixing his hair, imagining John’s blue… no, Vic’s grey eyes on him. He blushed, biting his lip, disappointed in himself. 

He could clearly imagine the slow fall of Vic’s features to disgust and anger, those flashing eyes and the clenching jaw, the redness building in his neck and ears as he geared up to teach Sherlock a lesson; what would happen if he knew that Sherlock was thinking about John. He shuddered, scared at just the thought. He tried to put it out of his mind but he knew what he had to do; he had to make Vicky proud, he had to *stay away* from John.

As soon as he got to school Sherlock avoided John as best he could, renewed in his effort not to talk to him. Only -- it seemed that now Sherlock was aware of him, the more he seemed to see him around the school. He couldn’t escape the intense, yet soft eyes, the big hands, the self-confident and maddeningly smug smile, the black army boots he always wore, the flopping gold hair and big muscles. Ugh.

During lunch, he hid from the throng of students in the cafeteria in the art hallway with his friends, for fear of John catching him. At the bottom of the stairs, the six of them sat most days and ate lunch - Molly, Irene, Sally, Philip, Mike, and him. 

“What’s got you all quiet, Sherlock?” Mike asked, after he’d failed to laugh at another of his jokes. 

“Yeah, something wrong, cutie?” Irene asked good-naturedly, giggling through some cherries she was sharing with her girlfriend Molly. 

“Aw, no, nothing. What’s up with you, hot stuff?” Sherlock returned, cracking a smile at her. She was wholly a lesbian and he was entirely gay, so they were always flirting as a joke.

“Oh, seriously, Sherlock. Is there something wrong?” Molly asked him, laughing at Irene’s and his playful flirting. Philip and Mike nodded, concern evident in their eyes.

He shook his head. “Nothing, you guys, seriously.” 

Irene looked him up and down, gaze narrowing. 

“And how’s Vic?” she asked, tone harder than it had been before. She knew Vic, and knew what he was like. She didn’t approve of him - but the feeling was mutual. Vicky didn’t like any of Sherlock’s friends (“Too judgmental, Sherly, darling, too low-class,” he’d said).

Sherlock avoided her gaze and covered a spot on his neck where there was a healing cig burn. He was aware of his fading black eye, too, even as it was slightly hidden by his makeup. 

“Fine, he’s… he’s fine.” 

Molly put a hand on his knee comfortingly, making eye contact. Sherlock knew what it meant; she smiled along with him, their softness too intuitive for words. She knew him, knew how to make him feel loved, knew what he needed from a friend. She was too meek to say it, but he knew she didn’t like Vic just as much as the rest of them. She was a good friend; his best friend.

The conversation moved on, with Sherlock smiling and included more this time.

*:･ﾟ✧

After the last period of the day, Sherlock shut his locker to find John, a cigarette behind his ear, leaning against the lockers behind it. He blinked, and stopped. John met his eyes and grinned, unbothered.

“Hiya, Sher,” he greeted, winking, the picture of a mafia bad boy; in a leather jacket, a white turtleneck over his big strong chest, those big army boots, and lots of gold jewelry. A lot fancier than at the party Friday night… he looked nice. Really good. 

So Sherlock spun on one heel and walked the other way. 

No way, no way! he thought even as his heart fluttered in his chest to see that intense gaze trained on him. No! Vic had told him what talking to John made him - a *slut* - and he was a good boy. He was a good boy for Vic. He was going to make Vic proud. And talking to John wouldn’t help with that.

Unfortunately John was quick. In no time flat, he’d caught up and was walking in stride with Sherlock. “C’mon, don’t be like that. I just wanna talk.”

“No, you don’t. You only want to talk because of my looks. That’s what Vic said,” Sherlock sniffed. Take that, hot guy bad boy, he thought. Plus… he didn’t want John to think any less of him, because Vic saw fit to hit him. If his boyfriend had to teach him lessons so often, then how would John react to him, his abrasive self? Even if he had been impressed in the kitchen at the party… 

“Oh, that’s definitely a factor,” John returned, his voice becoming nearly a growl. His grin showed his pure white teeth, sharp incisors, and Sherlock blushed despite himself. John grasped his arm, stopping him in the stairwell outside the school. How had they already walked all this way? He must have been walking quite quickly without his own knowledge, he thought as John backed him into the railing, still wearing that smirk. 

They were too close, again, said alarm bells in his head, making Sherlock swallow heavily. He could smell John; smoke and leather, motor oil and something unique, something that was just John. Sherlock could barely meet his eyes, so intense and predatory were they. He had forgotten, almost entirely, everything and anything else other than John.

He tried to come up with something, anything, that would get John to move away before he passed out, but nothing. His brain was blank, for the first time in a very long time. One of John’s arms was very close to his torso, hanging onto the railing and blocking him from walking further, and the absolute size of John and his muscles next to Sherlock’s smaller frame was enough to short him out completely. “Um,” he said, quite eloquently, feeling very small. 

John laughed, backing off and pulling away so that they were just standing next to one another. “Hey, don’t look so scared, I won’t hurt you.” His expression made Sherlock feel like he was something desirable, something John wanted to get to know. It was strange. It felt new, but not bad. Not bad… he actually really liked it. 

“And no one *should* hurt you, by the way,” John said pointedly. Sherlock looked away, and back, curling in on himself a little out of self-consciousness, and he was about to say something, maybe in defense of Vic, when - 

“Hey!” shouted a voice from the street. Sherlock turned his head so fast he nearly broke his own neck. His heart jumped when he saw Vic’s clean white Sedan, and he was scrambling away from John and running towards it before he even knew what he was doing. He got there as Vic climbed out and flew into his arms, hitting him solidly and breathing against him for a moment before Victor pulled him back by the shoulders and looked down at him to meet his eyes, expression of contempt on his face. Sherlock looked up at him innocently, desperately. He didn’t want to be a bad boy. He didn’t want to be a slut. He didn’t want to make Vicky unhappy, and he didn’t want to be taught a lesson. He tried to convey how much he loved Vic through just that look, how much he trusted him and how much he wanted him, tried to tell him he didn’t mean for him to catch John talking to him… but it didn’t seem to be working.

“Come on, Sherly, get in the car,” Victor said, looking away to where John had been standing a moment before, and where he was no longer standing. Sherlock looked back and caught the heel of a black army boot disappearing around the corner, but Vic didn’t see.

He hopped into the car. Victor eventually sat down in the driver’s seat. “Hi, Vicky,” Sherlock smiled. Vic sighed frustratedly, looking straight ahead. 

“Sherlock,” he started, tone warning. Sherlock’s face fell, and fear was stricken into his heart. It beat faster as he began to talk a mile a minute.

“No, no, Vicky, you have it all wrong, you see, we were just talking - and I didn’t want to be talking to him but he insisted, and we barely said anything to -”

“Sherlock! What did I tell you?!” Victor cut in, grey eyes flashing to his boyfriend’s.

Sherlock was quieted. “D-don’t talk to John.”

“And what did you do?”

“I - well, I didn’t -”

Victor slammed his fist on the center console of the car, shutting Sherlock up immediately, and also making him jump, eyes wide in fear. He hated when this happened, when Vic got mad and Sherlock lost control of himself, lost his entire personality, self, and all rational thought to the fear.

“Sherlock. What did you do.”

“I - I talked to John.”

Victor slapped him across the face.

Sherlock fell back against the window, pain ricocheting through him.

Victor inhaled, then exhaled heavily, scrubbing a hand over his own face, eyes shut like he couldn’t bear to even look at Sherlock. “That’s right,” he said finally. “God, what else? I bet you talked to everyone I told you not to, Sherly, didn’t you? You’re a bad person, you’re a terrible partner. You slut!”

Sherlock could barely keep the tears from slipping down his face. His hands shook as he held his own stinging cheek. “I - I’m sorry, Vicky, I, um, it won’t happen again - “

“It better not. Jesus Christ. Fuck. I’m taking you home.”

Sherlock said nothing more, slight shoulders shaking as he buckled his seatbelt and curled on the seat. Victor started up the car and drove off.

As they left, John stepped out from behind the school.

He cracked his knuckles and reached into his pocket for his lighter, flicking it open and igniting his cigarette. He inhaled and let the smoke out slowly, watching the car drive away.

He’d said he was going to kill this bastard, and John Watson was not a liar.


	4. Deciding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is met; Sherlock's relationship's cycle is explored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody! so sorry for the hiatus i HONESTLY didnt mean to leave you all hanging!! this is sort of a boring chapter (no sex) but next chapter is going to be kind of fucking insane so that will be posted this week (if not tomorrow) !! please enjoy !

Victor drove him home, the energy in the car tense and nearly too much to handle. Sherlock cried quietly as they drove, nervous to make Vic angry again. At that moment, he hated himself more than he had ever hated anything; he’d disobeyed Vic, his only request - don’t talk to John - and made him angry enough to hit him again. Sherlock was always doing this, forcing Vic’s hand in teaching him a lesson. He hated it so much, hated himself for making Vic do it, but he didn’t know how to stop. All he wanted was Vic when he was affectionate, he wanted his love and admiration, his kisses and smiles and appreciative hungry eyes. But now he’d gone and ruined everything yet again. And now Vic wasn’t talking to him and he wasn’t taking him out. Oh god… 

When they arrived, Vic stopped the car and waited, but Sherlock didn’t move. Tears were still flowing down his face, but much slower than when they had left the school. He sniffled in the silence of the car and started softly, “Vicky…” 

Vic took a deep breath, but didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him.

“I don’t wanna leave things like this…” 

“Then you should’ve listened to me!”

Sherlock flinched. “I - I know…”

Victor sighed. “Sherly, look at me,” he commanded, and Sherlock did. When they met eyes, he took Sherlock’s jaw in his hand, holding it softly but firmly as he stared into his eyes.

“Sherlock, listen to me, baby,” Victor cooed, “I don’t wanna hurt you. Understand?”

And Sherlock nodded, obsessed. Victor could have asked him to kill himself at that moment and Sherlock would have done it. Anything for that look in his grey eyes, anything for the tenderness in how he held his jaw. He craved it, he needed it. He’d die without it, and he couldn’t get it anywhere else.

“But when I ask you not to do something… and you *do it*,” Victor hissed, grip tightening on Sherlock’s jaw and pulling him closer, “I don’t have a choice.” His eyes had that crazed look, brow furrowing intensely and pupils small as they searched Sherlock’s wide blue begging stare. “Got it?”

Sherlock made a noise, a quiet, soft note laced with apology and desperation. Victor released him and wiped his hand on his pant leg. 

“Can you forgive me?” Sherlock asked, feeling like a tiny child as he asked for his boyfriend to love him.

Victor sat, staring straight ahead. Sherlock could practically see the gears turning in his head, but trusting as he was, he didn’t question it at all. The silence was horrible, and loud - deafening.

Eventually Victor sucked his own teeth and ran a hand through his perpetually greasy hair. “Just go inside, Sherly,” he said, and it sent a pang of regret and pain through Sherlock’s heart. No!

But Vic saw Sherlock about to speak, and the severity of his glare left the words in Sherlock’s mouth to rot and evaporate. Sherlock blinked once, nodded his head in painful assent, and retreated out of the passenger seat. Vic pulled away before Sherlock was even inside.

And when he did get in, through the front door this time, there was someone waiting for him.

“Fuck off, Myc,” he said, smearing his tears through his makeup as he tried to push past his brother in the narrow hallway. But the fat fuck refused to budge, merely giving Sherlock a look of contempt, pity, exasperation, and exhaustion.

“You can’t keep doing this, Sherlock,” he said, pompously as fucking ever. Sherlock wanted to shove him, wanted to shut him up, wanted to spit in his face; just something, anything, to defy, to display disrespect. But he didn’t, showing instead an astounding amount of self control.

He simply said, voice tired and wrecked even to himself, “Myc, don’t. Lemme through.”

He hated this, hated the judgment and disgusting pity in Mycroft’s eyes, hated the fact his older brother could read him so well; like no one else. They knew each other's' minds better than anyone else, and hated each other for the similarity they both saw.

Myc’s eyes bored into his. Sherlock didn’t look away, even as much as he wanted to. Finally, his older brother sighed. 

“You know it’s not good for you. You know that he’s hurting you, Sherlock. When are you going to stop this stupid -”

“It’s not stupid!” Sherlock shouted, anger boiling over and manifesting. Mycroft hardly looked surprised as Sherlock continued desperately. 

“I - it’s not stupid, it’s not stupid, it isn’t. He - he loves me, Myc,” he said, tears beginning to drip down his face once again and he rubbed at them with a sweater sleeve, curling in on himself despite the rebelliousness he felt. “He loves me.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. It was just like his younger brother, putting on hysterics… he was too young, naive, foolish. Sentimental, still. 

“It isn’t as if you’re going to listen to me, but no one who loves you should hurt you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s averted eyes snapped back to Mycroft’s face. “And what do you know about love?” he sniped defensively. “Maybe if someone wanted you, you’d understand. But no one does, so don’t -” his voice cracked and he wiped away tears angrily - “don’t pretend to know my relationship. I know that he loves me, and that’s what matters.” He pushed Mycroft’s chest, and his older brother, caught off guard, lost his balance and stepped to one side, allowing Sherlock to shove past him and escape to his bedroom. 

Mycroft watched him go with a heavy heart, wincing when the door slammed. 

He knew his brother just wanted affection - something they both hadn’t received much of as children - but his chosen method of dealing with it (dating an abusive man much older than him) left much to be desired. He knew Sherlock was lashing out, knew he was in danger, and also knew there wasn’t much he could do. Nobody listened to him at work. And going after a violent drug abuser on his own was most certainly not a good idea. 

It was, to be certain, a dilemma.

The best he could do as of now was this - confront Sherlock, try and get him to see reason; but what Mycroft really longed for was for help in raising his brother. Their parents, the Holmeses, weren’t very useful - what with Father being dead, and Mother being just a touch disturbed because of it. When he was alive, Mr Holmes had been a distant, professional man. Mycroft couldn’t remember a time he’d given his sons anything more than a handshake. And their mother - well. She had been sharp in her prime, but her husband’s death had dulled that sharpness substantially, and she was never home. Always vacationing someplace or another. A lot of the things Mycroft had done, he’d had to do alone; and that included taking care of Sherlock.

He sighed, pressing two fingers to his forehead and rubbing, feeling a headache coming on. With a sense of resignation, Mycroft turned from Sherlock’s shut door and down the hallway. He had work to do.

*:･ﾟ✧

Alone in his room, Sherlock threw himself onto his bed and cried silently. He hated himself for this, for getting so hurt when Victor was just trying to teach him a lesson. Fucking emotions. Fucking John!

He didn’t know how long he spent there, but it felt like at least 30 minutes, getting his pillow soaking wet and smudged with eyeliner, before his phone buzzed. With red eyes he scrambled to pick it up, still hoping beyond hope at a chance for redemption. He screwed his eyes shut, suddenly nervous to look at the screen, but took a deep breath and peeked through his eyelashes, and… 

A notification from Instagram.

Sherlock buried his face back in his pillow, tossing his phone to the floor.

Later that night, as he finished up his homework with teary eyes, he made himself a vow - a solid promise, non-negotiable. No more speaking with John. All he was doing was making Sherlock ruin the first and only relationship he’d cared about. And then Vic’s voice echoed through his head. “... that Molly girl, that Mike kid, the Sally girl either…” 

Sherlock shut his eyes and crossed his heart and silently sent out a plea to Victor. To forgive him. And to trust him - this time, for real - to keep true to him. Him, and only him.

He fell asleep that night with tears in his eyes, his phone on the pillow next to him, waiting for a call or text that never came.

*:･ﾟ✧

For the next week Sherlock spent his time alone. He didn’t talk to anybody. He ignored and avoided John’s glances in the halls, blew off Molly and Irene and Mike when they asked to sit with him. Eventually they stopped asking. They knew what had occurred and why; every so often this happened. Vic got into Sherlock’s head, and he’d end up fighting the futile battle of isolating himself, a naturally pretty social person. His friends missed him, and worried about him, and lunches in the stairwell were just that much quieter. But they knew he’d return eventually.

Every day Sherlock would catch a ride with Victor - usually. But this week, he only came back on Thursday. And he was late.

But the moment Sherlock saw that clean white Sedan pull into the school zone, he was ecstatic. He jumped up, shouldering his bag and holding back a dreamy grin as Vic, with a cigarette smoking away in his mouth, rolled to a stop in front of him. Sherlock excitedly clambered in and set his bag down, but before he could say anything, Vic spoke.

“You’re not forgiven.”

Sherlock’s face fell. He blinked. Vic continued.

“I expect you’ve been speaking with John?”

Mercifully, it was a question. Sherlock enthusiastically shook his head no, curls bouncing cutely with his movement. Vic blinked languidly, expression blank, unfeeling, contrasted heavily with Sherlock’s desperate face, begging body language, and shaky hands. 

“And Molly, either?”

Again, Sherlock’s head confirmed the negative silently.

Vic turned his head, taking the cig from his mouth and blowing smoke out the window. Sherlock sat, body tense in the passenger seat of his boyfriend's car. He watched Vic’s apparent consideration with large eyes. 

“I’ll take you home. I’ll text you later.”

Sherlock wanted to argue, to say something more, try and convince Victor some more, but he could see in the clench of Victor’s weak jaw, the flex of his hands, and his flashing eyes that at this point in time it would be a very bad idea to say anything more. He tried not to cry again, but the hot flush of tears swelled up his throat and into his face, making him blink his eyes rapidly and look away. He’d done all he could, and it still hadn’t been enough.

He felt like an utter failure as Vic pulled away from the school, as he drove him silently home, as he stopped the car just long enough to let Sherlock out before pulling away once more. Sherlock watched him go, until he was at the end of the street - then until he couldn’t see the car anymore. His stomach turned with a sick and sudden sense of deja vu.

After a long while of simply standing and staring after Vic’s long gone Sedan, trying not to cry or throw up, Sherlock went inside. He closed the door as slowly as he could and stepped quietly, especially past Mycroft’s room, under the door of which a light could be seen, shining on the hardwood floor. His brother was a hard worker and a bit of a prick about it too; he was only twenty-four (to Sherlock’s seventeen) but still getting a bit of notoriety in terms of career. Their father had been a very influential man, and Mycroft lived to keep that legacy on - whereas Sherlock couldn’t have cared less. He just wanted to forget about his father, and to have back his mother; who she used to be, anyway.

When Sherlock reached his room, he was in his head, stressed-out, and tense. He couldn’t seem to calm down or focus, checking his phone incessantly; he couldn’t get any work done or do anything at all. He kept catching himself thinking about *what if Vic breaks up with me, what then, how do I just go on, what if I fucked everything up for real this time, what if, what if, what if…*. He eventually ended up opening his window, pulling up his secret floorboard hiding spot, and starting to smoke a cigarette while staring at the dimming horizon, not quite seeing anything at all.

It didn’t work, of course. Vic had given him the packet of smokes, and lit his first for him; had encouraged him to keep smoking - for stress. Usually it did help, but not now. Now it only reminded him of how not-here Victor was.

Now, he just wanted his phone to buzz and his leg to stop jiggling and Vic to forgive him. He smeared a tear from his eye and sniffled a bit, blowing smoke out his window.

Hours passed. The searing heartbreak of waiting didn’t. Sherlock halfheartedly practiced violin in an oversized hoodie and tall socks, glancing over at his phone after every measure and overall distracting himself from getting anything done.

After the third billionth time he’d checked, there was something new on the screen. Sherlock practically threw his violin back into its case and jumped onto his bed, tapping frantically at the text notif.

Vic 💖💖💖 sent you a text:  _ Are you there Sherly? _

With hands shaking from excitement and relief, Sherlock texted quickly back.

You:  _ Vicky, i’m really sorry _

Vic 💖💖💖:  _ You should be. You make it hard to trust you. This is your fault _

You:  _ i know, and i really didn’t mean to, i’m sorry _

You:  _ i’ll do anything to help you trust me again _

Vic 💖💖💖: _ Anything? _

You:  _ anything at all, just tell me and it’s done. is there something i can do? _

There was a long delay as Vic’s typing bubble popped up, then down, then up again. Sherlock chewed his lip, curling in on himself on his bed, waiting nervously.

Vic 💖💖💖:  _ Yes, there’s something. Here - since you like Johnny so much, you could buy from him for me. _

Vic 💖💖💖:  _ It’ll let me know that you’re trustworthy. If you don’t do it, or if you fuck it up… I don’t know how I could trust you again, Sherly. _

Sherlock stopped. His fingers stuttered over the keyboard, then erased, a few times. In the end, he hit send.

  
You:  _ i’ll do it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please (politely) tell me what you think!!!


	5. Caring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something happens!

On Friday after school, Sherlock walked home, knowing Vic wasn’t coming; his boyfriend had told him to bring him what he’d asked for, that night, after 6pm. As he walked, his shadow cast darkly onto the road in the waning sunlight, making him hurry with nerves.

As he stepped up to his door, he noticed that the mat outside the front door was slightly askew, crumpled on one side like someone had kicked it. He wrinkled his nose, confused, before he started piecing things together. Underneath the mat, there was a small stone, like the ones in the garden off the porch. His father had meticulously kept the garden before he died, but no one touched it now. He hurried down the porch steps again and under them, in the small stones, was an envelope, addressed simply to “Sherly”. Sherlock leaned back on his haunches, staring at it. He knew exactly what it was, and why it was there. He tucked it into his pocket and entered the house.

The house was empty; Mycroft was gone. Sherlock would have been scared of what might have happened to him, except there was a long note on the countertop detailing his brother’s absence; a paragraph on how he would be gone for four days on ‘business’ (Sherlock took note that what he was actually doing was not specified), and another urging Sherlock to eat, attend school, and to ‘not get into any sort of mess’ while he was gone. Whatever. Sherlock tossed it back down and sat next to it on the counter, thinking.

After his agreement to get Vic’s stuff from John, Sherlock had laid awake all night, mind buzzing, weighing his options. He could ask John, let him know that he would be coming instead of Vic for the drugs… but that might make Vic mad if he found out. Better to go alone, unannounced. But he still couldn’t sleep - he was fearful. Not of the law; sure, he was scared he might get caught buying drugs, but at the same time it wasn’t his main concern. His main concern was Vic.

His boyfriend was a dangerous force on drugs. And when he was angry, and when he was sad, when he was upset - when he was in the car and Sherlock outside of, when he wanted Sherlock to do something… a lot of the time, he was a dangerous force. But never more so than when Sherlock disappointed him; something Sherlock was gifted at. So it was no wonder the Holmes was apprehensive. But… he’d do it. For Vic, to forgive him, and love him again.

Sherlock realized that doing what Vic said, what Vic told him to do, was the only way to get his affection back. Jaw set with new realization, he ran to his bedroom, whirling around corners, his socked feet slipping a little on the wood floors. He didn’t care, just kept running, racing up the stairs and sliding to a stop in front of his closet, which he quickly opened.

He changed into dark, unassuming clothes and a long coat. It was barely summer, and the evening air was warm - but he wasn’t about to go without the coat. He took a pocket knife as well as the money Vic had given him in the envelope outside, and tucked them into separate pockets. He gathered some change for the bus trip and, with a deep breath to steel himself, left the Holmes residence.

Which brought him to now - standing outside the little garage that was the front for the operation, staring in, apprehensive, chewing his lip. Sherlock hadn’t really wanted more information, but Vic had given him some anyway - and what he hadn’t said was clearly observable. The Watson family was apparently a very high-profile and powerful organized crime ring, feared and respected by users, police officers, and business owners alike. Absorbing this information, information he’d previously blocked out (deeming it unimportant), it made Sherlock mentally kick himself for not realizing this earlier. At the party, he’d insulted someone who could have hurt him, or, more importantly, hurt Vic. 

But now he had to be strong. He had to enter, and get what he needed, and get out. And then Vic would love him again! Simple as that.  _ Simple as that _ , he promised himself, stepping off the curb by the bus stop and towards the entrance.

Vic’s instruction had been to go through the garage, so Sherlock did. He walked with purpose, hiding his shaky hands in his coat pockets. His right pinkie brushed against the knife, a cold reminder of what might happen tonight, and he set his jaw and kept going. As he rounded the corner, he could see into what looked like an actual garage - well lit, with various cars in various states of assembly. It surprised him, but what was more interesting were the two figures standing close to the back of the small garage.

One was tall, blond-haired and buff, wearing a grease-marked white wife beater and jeans - John - and the other was a skinnier woman with long light hair and bangs. Sherlock watched carefully from just around the corner as John handed her a bag of something and she handed over a stack of bills. Their conversation was quiet, but brief, it seemed, and the woman was doing a lot more smiling that John. In a moment she turned and walked away from where Sherlock was standing, and his heart beat faster as he stepped forward into the garage. 

John looked up from where he had picked up a towel and wiped his hands with it, clearly expecting someone else. When he saw Sherlock standing there with false confidence, his eyes widened at once and the towel dropped out of his hands, hitting the ground with an almost silent rustle.

“ _ Sherlock _ ?!” John sputtered, caught off guard. He paced a step closer, then back, then closer again. “What… what the  _ fuck _ are you doing here?” Emotions flitted across his face in quick succession; Sherlock clocked surprise, confusion, happiness, fear, concern, before John settled on bemusement. 

Sherlock held his head up high. “To buy. From you,” he sniffed, “obviously.”

John looked at him, unbelieving, until Sherlock rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, trying to make himself feel less exposed to the other boy. “Not  _ for me _ ,” he elaborated. “I’m sure you were expecting Victor. I’m here in his place, tonight.”

John blinked, like this wasn’t a totally rational explanation. “Okay, so… Vic asked you to buy his shit for him,” he said slowly.

“Yes, what’s so hard about this, exactly? I have the money.”

“Whoa, whoa,” John chuckled, but it was almost frantic in a way, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. “No one’s buying anything here. I don’t do that, I’m - I’m not doing that. I’m not letting him _ do that  _ to you,” he said, and Sherlock furrowed his brow. 

“He’s not  _ doing _ anything. It’s a simple request.”

“Wh - that’s not a simple request, Sherlock. You don’t use anything, right?” Sherlock shook his head no, slowly, still not understanding what the problem was. “Yeah, he’s - this is a crazy thing to ask. I could be dangerous - I could be violent. He’s not even  _ here _ , is he?!”

Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t reply. He bit his lip. 

Was John right? More importantly, why did John care?

“This is so - you’re fucking seventeen, how could he -”

“You’re eighteen!”

“Doesn’t matter! I’m a Watson!”

“Ugh, just - I’m trying to purchase something here! Would you just -”

“No!” John exploded, making Sherlock flinch back. “Firstly, we do not sell to customers for resale, or for pickup, and secondly, you’re seventeen with a twenty-five year old drug addict asshole boyfriend who’s putting you in dangerous situations so he can get high!”

Sherlock felt his control of the situation slipping away as he shook his head. “No, he’s doing this so I can show him m-my loyalty -”

“No, he’s not, he’s doing it so he can control you and show you that you can’t do anything without his permission. I see what he does to you. Vic’s an asshole either way, Sherlock, and you don’t deserve that, I promise you don’t. Let me see your phone,” John finished, holding out a hand and meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock blinked. There was a sensitivity in those crystal blue eyes that had his stupid heart fluttering. He pinked slightly, but shook his head. “What? N-no -”

“If you don’t hand it over, I’m taking it by force and you’re gonna like that significantly less. Give it.”

After another tense moment of deliberation, Sherlock reached into his pocket and tugged out his phone with its yellow case, unlocking it and placing it in John’s wide outstretched palm.

“Thank you,” John said. After barely a few seconds of him tapping on Sherlock’s phone, he turned it off and made eye contact. “You should just go home. I’ll deal with him after this, okay? I won’t let him -”

“What? What did you just  _ do _ ?”

John handed back the phone and said, “I deleted his number and blocked him.”

Sherlock froze.

John had just done something - something at once amazing and horrible. Fear and apprehension shot through his body, tensing his shoulders. Vic was going to  _ kill _ him. As in, actually murder him. And the local police department would be incapable of finding his body. Vic would immediately know what had been done and he would catch the punishment for that, John couldn’t protect him forever, and he wouldn’t try forever, either. He’d done exactly the opposite of what he meant to do… and failed Victor. 

Simultaneously as he thought this, he was also getting that fluttery strange feeling back in his chest. John had had the confidence to simply… delete the number off of Sherlock’s phone. He’d cared enough to refuse sale of his own product, and to go out of his way to make his opinion clear… but…  _ why _ ?

“Wh - why would you do that?!” His tone was less stable than he would have liked.

John threw up his hands, exasperated. “It’s not like  _ you _ would have done it!”

“Of course not! He’s my boyfriend! And that - that doesn’t answer my question!”

John stuttered out a few scoffs before answering. “He - well, he’d be hurting you otherwise.”

“So  _ what _ ?” Sherlock challenged quickly, uncaringly.

“‘So what?’ ‘ _ So what? _ ’”

“ _ Maybe I deserve it _ !”

John looked about ready to kill something. His blue eyes flashed and he surged forward and grabbed Sherlock by his lean shoulders. This was nothing like when they had touched before, flirty and unserious - this was like being snatched by a live power line, hot, intense. John looked him right in the eyes, and Sherlock found himself enraptured, unable to look away, caught by a spell.

“You  _ don’t. _ ”

Sherlock hardly dared to breathe. 

But it lasted too short - his brow furrowed as he started to overthink - fear clouding his mind and tensing his shoulders, making him shake his head and something in his eyes must have revealed petrification to John because he, woefully, released his shoulders and Sherlock stumbled and fell back, still shaking his head. The spell broke.

“Why did you do it,” Sherlock said, more than asked, desperately. He meant the deletion, but it could have been everything.

John looked hurt. It scared Sherlock even more as he scrambled up, never turning from John; whose handsome face was taking on a very determined look. Sherlock tripped his way backwards out of the garage and into the now-black night. He didn’t know where he was going, but he had a pretty good idea of where he’d end up.

John ran out after him, catching himself on the wall of the garage. “Because I  _ care about you _ !” he shouted out after him into the darkness.

There was no reply. 

John turned and swore, kicked the nearest car, scrubbed his hands over his face, and groaned. But he knew what he had to do.

Ten minutes later, the garage was locked up, lights dim and cash box empty for the night, and a black pickup was reversing quickly out of the parking lot to fly down the road at a lightning pace.

John Watson was not a liar.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks everyone so much for the lovely comments! hope you enjoy and let me know if you like it!


End file.
